Jackson Jones and the Curse of the Outlaw Rose (7 page)

The Space Shuttle is my favorite eat-out place in the city. The ice cream is served in flying saucers. It's where Reuben and I had come up with the brilliant idea to create Captain Nemo.

But right then, my man and I had places to go. Namely a graveyard.

Of course, Gaby decided to chew each mouthful twenty-nine times. So did Ro.

“You don't
chew
ice cream,” I said.

“Chewing well is good for your digestion,” she replied, all prissy.

“Enjoy the quiet,” Juana advised me, scraping her bowl. “Chewing keeps 'em busy.”

I tried to hurry things along. “Look, Mama!” I flung my arm toward the window. “The sun's going down.”

“The sun goes down every day,” Mama grumbled, mopping a soda spill. “See, you knocked my cup again. What's got you so jittery now? Another bee?”

“It's getting
dark.”

Reuben shot me a worried look. My man and I were sharing the same thought, for sure. It was bad enough to haul a ghost plant to a graveyard. We didn't want to do it at night.

“Oh, Jackson,” Mama sighed. “Can't the planting wait till tomorrow?”

“NO,” Reuben and I both shouted.

“Your mama's tired, boy,” Mr. K. barked. “Of course the planting can wait.”

Luckily, Mr. K. seemed fixed more on post-poning
the planting than on what was being planted. We had to get that cutting to the graveyard
fast.
Haunted twig? Rose ghost? He'd never believe us.

“Mama, you
promised,”
I pleaded.

And I had promised the twig. If I broke that promise, no telling what the ghost might do.

“You seen the bee lately?” Reuben whispered.

“Thought I heard it at breakfast,” I whispered back. “You think it's a warning?”

Reuben moaned.

“Does your stomach hurt? Can I have your ice cream?” Gaby grabbed Reuben's bowl. Ro grabbed mine.

They both commenced spooning. Chewing. One … two … three …

“Oof.” Gaby FINALLY pushed away Reuben's bowl. “I'm full.”

Ro jiggled the worm farm. “My guys want to go home.”

FINALLY we piled into the zuke mobile
again. Stopped before our apartment building. I ran in, grabbed the twig, ran out…. That's when I discovered the chew-counting duo were bailing.

“My worms are sleepy,” Ro explained.

“You're scared.” I crossed my arms. “You don't want to go to the graveyard.”

“Do you?” asked Gaby.

Well, no. But I also didn't want that haunted twig in my home another hour, another minute, another second.

“Chicken,” I said.

“Cluck, cluck,” said Gaby.

“Sorry, Jackson.” Juana followed the little kids out of the van. “I gotta keep them out of trouble.”

That left Mama, Mr. K., Reuben, me.

My man and I needed to get rid of Mr. K. before he got us in trouble—with the ghost.

“Mr. Kerring,” Reuben spoke up politely. “You must be awful tired.”

“Yes,” I agreed, even more politely. “We can drop you off right now, before we go—”

“Tired? Me?” The old man trained his sharp
eyes on us. “Nonsense! By the way, where
are
you going?”

“Urn,” said Reuben.

“Urn,” I repeated.

“The boys suggested a little drive to the country,” Mama cut in. “You know, to enjoy the late-spring evening.”

“They did, huh?” The old man smiled. “Why, I believe I'll go, too.” He settled deeper into his seat. “Nothing for me at home but that nurse.”

I sighed. Please, no more questions. No probing into exactly why we suggested a drive to the country. Despite all his “nonsense” talk, Mr. K. did look tired. Maybe he'd fall asleep.

Reuben nodded solemnly at me. I hoped we could take on a ghost. Especially an impatient one.

The time: seven o'clock.

Mr. K.'s head bobbed and bounced and finally drooped in sleep. Mama drove slowly,
taking in the country landscape and giving out a few teachable moments. She pointed out the difference between a Holstein cow and an Angus bull. Identified a blackberry thicket. Exclaimed over the dry leaves on a giant oak. “We need rain,” she said. “How many days has it been?”

“Twenty-eight,” said Reuben.

Soon Mama was trotting out tales of her country childhood. How she had tended strawberries in the garden. Snapped beans on the porch. Explored fields on her very own horse.

The animal's name? Jackson. That's right, I was named for a horse.

Talk about embarrassing. But this is how I figure it: Mama had so much love wrapped up in the land and that four-legged creature that she needed to put it
somewhere
when she moved to the city. So she had transplanted those feelings to her houseplants and kid.

It could have been worse. What if she'd loved a cow?

Mama's country talk rolled right over
Reuben and me. We were focused on the twig. It rested quietly between us on the backseat. So far, so good. I thought of that twig returning to the graveyard, returning to the other pink roses twining on the old fence.

“The old fence,” I whispered.

Reuben shot me a scared look. I could tell my man and I were sharing one bad, BAD thought.

On our first trip to the graveyard, the clean-up manager had said his crew planned to tear down the old fence and cut away growth. What if the fence was gone? And the pink roses, too? What if there was no place for the cutting to return to?

What might the ghost do then?

In the front, Mr. K. dozed, softly snoring.

Smack!
Something struck the windshield.

“Did you see that bee?” Mama peered out her window. “Huge! And it flew off, like it wasn't hurt.”

Once again my mind started its singing:
No bees, no broken bones, no poison ivy.
I added another song:
Please, please, PLEASE let the fence be okay.

“Miz Jones”—Reuben was polite but grim— “you gotta drive faster.”

FINALLY Mama found the path that led from the road into the woods. The path that we'd followed to the graveyard. She parked the van. Handed me the flashlight from the glove compartment.

Twilight had settled like a gray sheet over everything.

“Are you sure you need to do this?” she asked, giving me the eye.

I nodded. Reuben hoisted a spade.

“Well, if you're not back in twenty minutes,” she said, “I'm going after you.”

Mr. K. continued to snore. Reuben and I softly closed the van door. Took our first steps along the path. The woods swallowed us immediately. When I turned, I couldn't see the zuke mobile.

I switched on the flashlight. The beam bounced ahead. It lit the dull needles drooping from pines, the cracked leaves of a sycamore. Twigs snapped underfoot. The drought had drained the life from everything. I could smell the hot dryness. One spark from
a match or lightning and
whoosh.
The whole forest would go up in flames.

Suddenly Reuben stumbled into me. “Sorry, man,” he said. “Thought I saw—”
Bzzzz.
A giant bee hovered before us. Blood's bee.

I clutched the twig. Felt its wiry strength.

The bee's buzz filled the air.

“J-Jackson, look,” chattered Reuben.

He pointed to some large gray blobs in the darkness. I swept the flashlight beam and, in the light, saw the graveyard. The hulking stones.

And the old fence … covered with roses.

That meant the broken-bone-poison-ivy-bee-sting curse had scared off the clean-up crew.

Staring at the roses, I shivered. Every plant in that forest was dry and dying. But those roses … soft and full. Like someone tended them carefully. Watered them once a day.

“L-like Mr. K.'s yellow roses,” whispered Reuben.

The big bee swooped toward the fence, circled back. Buzzed.

I steeled myself for the sting.

“Hey,” said Reuben. “I think it wants us to follow.”

The bee swooped off again. Circled back.

And wouldn't you know, it buzzed us straight to the stone closest to the fence. The gravestone that had tripped me. Straight to the place where I had taken the cutting.

Reuben and I knew just what to do. We dropped to our knees and dug.

We stuck that twig in the hole, tamped down the earth.

“Let's get out of here,” Reuben panted.

But something held me. I breathed in the night, filled with rose smell. Felt the weight and age of the surrounding trees. I touched the stone beside the twig. Squinted at the letters revealed by the flashlight.

“Rose … Cassoway,” Reuben read aloud. “Can't make out the dates, though.”

I bounced the beam off the other gravestones.
Read the writing below the names:
BELOVED

HUSBAND … SADLY MOURNED.

“Rose's stone is smaller than the others,” murmured Reuben.

Well, it is hard to make a circle of kindness with just two people. But it can be done. I apologized to Rose for disturbing her spot, for cutting her flowers. I wished her peace. So did Reuben.

When we left, I turned round just once. The roses glowed in the darkness. And that bee … I swear, that bee was swooping and buzzing around them. Watching over them even at night.

When we returned to the van, Mama's worry frown was between her eyes. “You okay?”

I nodded, too tired to answer.

Mr. K. was wide awake and full of questions. “Your mama said you returned the rose cutting to the cemetery. Why?”

“It wasn't happy at Rooter's,” I murmured, sliding into my seat.

“Happy?” he barked. “Nonsense! A plant either grows or it doesn't. If it doesn't, throw—”

“But then we would have missed this drive to the country.” Mama nodded at me and pointed to tiny flicks of light in the darkness. “Look, fireflies!”

Mr. K. humphed, but I caught his sudden smile.

Mama started the van and swung onto the road. “Those cemetery roses are probably old-fashioned, like the yellow ones,” she said. “Even if the cutting didn't grow at Rooter's, do you think the rose judge might be interested?”

“No,” I said firmly.

Luckily, Mr. K. picked that moment to launch a lecture. “Nothing fancy-pants about old-time roses.” He snorted. “Judges like lade-da modern hybrids. Big petals and no smell. Del-i-cate. Mark my words, you'll never hear from the man.”